


To ashes & red carnations

by v_doe



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Morally Gray Will Graham?, Obsessive Hannibal Lecter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating will change, Slow Burn, Stalker Hannibal Lecter, Writer Will Graham, does this count as metafanfiction?, maybe dark!Will later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:20:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28975743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_doe/pseuds/v_doe
Summary: Freddie Lounds reaches for Will Graham before anyone else. Surprisingly that ends better than expected.Or: Will is sort of besties with Freddie (she didn't give him a choice), accidentally becomes a writer (and his biggest hit is Chesapeake Ripper fanfiction, let's be honest) & stays away from the FBI... but Hannibal finds him anyway, because of course he does.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 113
Kudos: 330





	1. Chapter 1

When Freddie Lounds appeared for the first time in his life, Will knew she only meant problems and a lot of headaches.

Apparently Freddie was on her way to becoming a famous member of the press <or so she said> and was interested in an interview, since she was planning to write an article about him, which was clear proof that Will was hated by cosmic forces.

His life was far from being the epitome of normality but Will had achieved a semblance of stability <and how ironic that sounded> with his recent teaching job, his quiet home in the middle of nowhere and his growing collection of rescue dogs. The last thing he needed was for Freddie to come and ruin his efforts, using his mind to put on a show for all of her readers because Will knew that regardless of whether he agreed to give an interview or not, he was on the losing side anyway.

So for two weeks Will tried to avoid her at all costs and when ambushed by her, he did his best to ignore her presence. A plan that worked as far as possible until the fateful night that changed _everything_.

That day Will reluctantly decided to give a little help to one of his students who was failing his course. Said student was in the midst of some personal problems and Will didn’t need to put himself in her shoes to understand her situation. Thus he ended up offering his help, something that under normal circumstances he would never do.

That’s how he was ambushed by Freddie Lounds in a lonely parking lot as he was heading towards his car. But Freddie wasn’t the only one who tried to corner him taking advantage of the darkness of the night because while he was trying to dodge her in order to access his car, a third person appeared out of the shadows. Will hadn’t planned on ending the day with him being threatened by an inexperienced criminal holding a knife, _again_ , but there he was. What would probably have been a simple robbery where he would only lose his wallet and phone, became complicated by Freddie’s stubbornness in refusing to hand over her bag, that only made worst the anxiety of the inexpert thief. And because Will was a martyr <or maybe just really stupid>, he intervened to help Freddie when the mugger clearly had enough of her.

Will got stabbed for his trouble, _again_. 

The assailant fled what was clearly the scene of his first serious crime and as Will lay leaning against the side of his car trying to put pressure on his wound, Freddie had the audacity of taking a couple of pictures. But at least she did it after calling 911 so Will thought that in the grand scheme of things that was a win.

The night passed between flashes, his mind divided between pain, memories of the past, the bright lights of the ER and Freddie Freaking Lounds at his side.

After that Freddie became a fixed point in his life.

Nothing good could come of associating with Freddie and Will didn’t want to have to deal with her any more than necessary, but it was hard to shake her off when the woman firmly believed he was indebted to her. And in a way he was since it was Freddie who took him to Wolf Trap after his emergency visit to the hospital, did some errands he couldn’t, lend a hand with his dogs and even got him groceries. Of course a normal person would’ve done all of this as an apology for Will’s unfortunate visit to the hospital, but Freddie wasn’t exactly normal and she judged everything in terms of what benefited her and what didn’t. In a way Will found refreshing dealing with someone who didn’t bother to hide the fact that her interest in him was motivated purely by personal gain, unlike all those people he had known throughout his life who always tried to disguise their true intentions.

It wasn’t then a surprise that Will’s first introduction to TattleCrime <which was the relatively new website where Freddie started posting what she wrote> was an article about the attempted assault, that not only exaggerated the events occurred that night but it also included photographs of Will bleeding on the asphalt in all of his splendor. And in exchange for the diligent help Freddie had given in his time of need <even when being stabbed was all her fault>, the woman requested that Will finally agree to the interview to talk about all the _secrets_ of his mind.

Until that moment Will had been under the belief that he finally managed to be a more or less functional adult with a more or less functional life, but now he understood how ill prepared he was to face emergencies; he completely lacked a system of people to support him when need it. Had he had at least one person willing to help him, Freddie hadn’t been the one to serve as his driver when leaving the hospital or the one bringing him food. What was even worse, if something happened and he couldn’t return home, there was no one who would take care of his dogs.

Later he’ll take the steps to remedy that matter because even if his own well-being was irrelevant, his dogs were not. But for now his most pressing problem was getting rid of Freddie.

Giving an interview wasn’t an option no matter how hard Freddie insisted, in fact, anything that implied Will reappearing in TattleCrime was out of the table, but Freddie was relentless and it took days to come up with an agreement that was satisfactory to her. Freddie decided that if Will didn’t want her to write about him and his mind <famous in psychiatric circles>, the least he could do was lend his inner workings for her articles on both old and new cases; nothing too deep or revealing: simple analyzes, first impressions, educated guesses and brief conclusions.

Things Will did most days all on his own without prompting.

This is how Will’s life as a consultant for a tabloid website began. Of course his forced participation was far from making him happy but from time to time some sacrifices had to be made in the name of self-preservation. True to their agreement, Freddie made no further mention of his name and kept silent about the help received in some of the things she was writing.

As the months passed, “working” with Freddie began to feel less like the result of blackmail and more like an occasional hobby for although the woman's “journalism” style left a lot to be desired, talking about crimes with her differed from how Will presented the cases to his students, maybe for the informality of their conversations. And while Freddie initially had been disturbed by the way in which he so easily traversed the corridors of the minds of criminals and murderers, Will stopped offending her supposed sensibilities as soon as it was clear how many readers she was gaining thanks to his input on her articles.

Of course Will wasn’t going to pretend Freddie would stop herself from stabbing him in the back or that she wouldn’t use against him the things she learned if it suited her interests, but a her core Freddie was a simple animal and she would refrain from biting the hand that was feeding her as long as it keep doing it.

And before he knew it, Will started meeting Freddie at least once a week in coffee shops as if they were good old friends enjoying each other's company... when in reality they spent hours looking at photographs of brutal murders <solved and unsolved>, speculating about killers non-stop.

Will tried, usually to no avail, to make Freddie less abrasive with what she wrote: pointing out how insensitive she was (“ _You need to be detached while writing, Graham”_ ), trying to stop her from exaggerating so much (“ _I’m just highlighting important things”_ ), suggesting that she tone it down ( _“I already do!”_ ) and talking about the nature of her yellow journalism (“ _I'm making the articles easy to digest for the masses, there's nothing wrong with that”_ ).

As expected nothing worked but at least Will could said he made the effort. And even if being in cahoots with Freddie was far from the ideal, sometimes their discussions were the best part of his week second to his dogs.

About seven months after he had been stabbed, Will became aware of Alana Bloom’s presence at Quantico.

Alana was one of many on a list of mental health professionals with whom Will had the displeasure of dealing at some point or another. It certainly wasn’t her fault that Will had a terrible dislike of psychiatrists and the ineffectiveness of their therapies. Even if Alana was one of many who failed <not because she was bad but because Will was, well, Will>, unlike the others he didn’t abhor her, which made him think that now with them being something like colleagues perhaps there was the possibility of a friendship since Will, after all, still desperately needed a support network in the event of an incident similar to the one that unfortunately brought Freddie into his life.

Of course making friends with Alana was easier said than done, because not only were Will’s poor social skills playing against him but Alana was deflecting all of his attempts to reach out to her.

Will understood perfectly the reasons why Alana was reluctant to form any kind of relationship with him, not only did she consider him unstable but it also bothered her <just as much as it also fascinated her> the way Will could read her as if her thoughts were written above her head. Although he could comprehend Alana’s position it didn’t make things better and even without expectations, rejection always tasted bitter.

Since it was impossible not to bond at least a little with someone you discuss gruesome murders consistently over the course of many months, Will found himself talking about Alana with Freddie one evening in one of their “crime coffee dates”.

“I don’t know why you even want to be friends with her.” Finally said Freddy with something akin to derision.

“She’s a good person, that’s reason enough.”

“Look, Graham, if she doesn’t accept you as you are, you don’t need her in your life.”

“The notion of people being obligated to embrace the faults in others in order to prove acceptance is juvenile.”

“I’m so unimpressed with you right now, just so you know. But that’s the thing, we’re not talking about smoking or asking for money and not paying back, we’re talking about how your brain works and that’s something you can’t change.”

“...still doesn’t mean people have to put up with it.”

“Like I said, if they can’t just forget about them.”

“Not long ago you too had a problem with the way I think.”

“ _Aand_ I got over it, see? Easy.”

“You only did because you're benefiting from it.” and because the only moral obligations Freddie had were to her own bank account.

“And that’s exactly the kind of people you need to associate with.”

“Someone that has an use for me?”

“Use is such an ugly word, but no. I mean people that see value in you not in spite of your mind but because of it.”

“I’m pretty sure you're telling me to surround myself with opportunists, psychiatrists or both.”

“Sometimes you’re so insufferable. Look, I know is hard for you and most can’t or won’t understand but eventually you’ll find people that make you feel comfortable enough to consider being friends with, you just need to _let them_. I don’t even know why I’m giving you a pep talk when you already know all this stuff, but if you want my opinion a great start is to stop victimizing yourself.”

“You’re awful.”

“Just stay away from the ones that don’t even want to be alone in the same room as you.” so awful indeed. “And please tell me we’re done with this so we can get back to business.”

And back to business they went.

Will knew perfectly well that Freddie’s advice wasn’t born from a place of disinterested concern, but the basic idea on which her words revolved around wasn’t entirely wrong.

And even though Alana still didn’t want to be alone in the same room with him, Will was determined to keep trying... or at least that had been the plan until a couple of days later his attention was eclipsed when he found the fourth member of his dog family and all his focus poured on it.

Oh and then Freddie became the target of a serial killer. _That_ took a bit of his attention too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, I'm not from USA so I have no idea how anything works in that exotic faraway land. Needless to say my english isn't that good either so I would be grateful if the mistakes I make are pointed out so I can correct them. 
> 
> I've been thinking about this silly thing for months and finally decided to give it a go. I know how ludicrous is the plot but girl I just wanna have fun.


	2. Chapter 2

The whole Night Trap Marauder episode served to remind Will of why he was right to quit working at Homicides.

Nightmares were a familiar bedfellow and nights of good sleep just a myth. The things he was teaching and the stuff he was consulting on didn’t help to make his dreams a safe place, but at least everything at that moment had been under control.

Brendon Thacker, a 38 year old divorcee who until recently was killing under the moniker of the Night Trap Marauder, took great offense with Freddie Lounds articles about him. It wasn’t the sensationalist style what ticked him off but some of the truths about him that appeared there all for the world to see; he couldn’t have known that those facts didn’t really come from Freddie’s insight so it wasn’t a surprise she became the center of his rage and not the true offender. Between menacing phone calls, threatening messages and even an alarming note in Freddie’s house door, the woman was clearly having the time of her life while the authorities went on a wild-goose chase. Will _almost_ got himself involved but ironically it was Freddie the one that strongly refused, surely because she didn’t want to lose access to his input.

Will made a detailed profile, gave it to Freddie <so she could pass it on to the police> and just sat down thinking about his life choices. In the end Brendon was captured days later on his way to his final act: ready to go out with a murder-suicide, just like Will knew he would try.

Even if that was the best outcome given the circumstances, Will’s nightmares got worse. More than once he dreamed about killing Freddie using the Marauder’s preferred method: hanging her by the ankles and slitting her throat, leaving her to bleed over a bucket. That was clearly the moment to call it quits, if not for Will’s peace of mind, for Freddie’s security then at the bare minimum because who knew how many Brendons where out there, happy to make her their victim of the week.

Now if only the woman could agree with him.

“Oh, no, no, no” said Freddie, shaking her finger in front of his face like he was a misbehaving child. “We make a great team, you’re not going away.”

“You got lucky this time, this was all a circus show for you. The next killer that sets eyes on you might actually get you.”

“And that’s why I’m making a lot of changes to be prepared, I’m starting with moving out and once I’m in the new place I’ll get a good home security system. Cameras everywhere.”

“That hardly solves the real problem. I can’t keep working with you it would be careless after what happened.”

“I’m not asking, Graham.”

“So what, I am supposed to ignore a killer made you his target because of me and live with the guilt when you die at the hands of the next one? I don’t want the weight of your death in my shoulders, Freddie.”

“You’re so melodramatic. Melodramatic and wrong. Unless you personally kill me with your own two hands, anything that happens is not your responsibility.”

“I don’t need to kill you myself to be at blame, it could be an accident, it could be negligence, it could be inaction. A lot of things would make me a murderer and unintentionally sic more killers on you is one of them.”

“And that would be _my_ decision. Look, I’m an adult, I know what I’m getting into and is a risk I’m willing to take. So I repeat, unless you’re the one doing the killing in person, it is _not_ your fault.”

“Yeah, still not how it works. But what now? I keep giving you information and be disinterested later if Brendon the Second sends you to the morgue?”

“I doubt that’s going to happen, but yes, exactly that.”

“Okay, fine, die then.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Will knew he was making a mistake but at that point in his life what was one more?

Instead of dwelling too much in the change of his nightmares, Will decided to preoccupied himself with his still missing action plan in case something happened and he couldn’t take care of his dogs.

So he started with something simple: getting a dog sitter.

Living so far away limited his options but in a rare display a good fortune he found an adequate sitter in Amy Pitts; the only downside was that Amy was unavailable on Thursdays, because that was the day she volunteered in a dog rescue home.

That’s how Will came to know about Happy Paws Dogs’ Refuge Home and it felt like a puzzle piece fell into his lap. For a long time he toyed with the idea of volunteering in a dog shelter but it was never the right moment, but despite the less savory parts of his life he was in a great place to finally make the attempt. It also helped that Freddie gave him a break because she was extremely busy trying to rush a book about her whole experience with the Night Trap Marauder while it was still relevant, which was understandable because it seemed like all the crazies where in Baltimore and soon enough the Marauder would be old news in the face of the new pyscho of the month.

Happy Paws was the beloved project of Rachelle and Nolan Bowman, a middle class couple with three daughters. Will only needed a few minutes to guess that after the younger daughter left the home, the Bowmans decided to fill the emptiness of their nest with dogs. Honestly, Will could relate. He counted as a big win that he managed to act normal enough so the Bowmans didn’t banned him on sight and soon enough he successfully became an official volunteer of Happy Paws, little identification card included. Somehow that felt more rewarding than being hired as a professor.

For the next two months Will comfortably settled in his new routine and even got himself another dog sitter <that he met at the refuge> in case Amy were to be indisposed. All in all things weren’t looking so bad and even his nightmares became again more manageable. 

It was mid-October when Freddie inadvertently brought another important change to his life.

“So, I need a favor.” She said as soon as she sat down in one of the tables of their preferred coffee shop.

“An illegal one?”

“Not this time. Is something easy, really. I want to put more variety in the page and was thinking of writing a horror story for Halloween, problem is that I don’t have time, I’m working on my final draft.”

“And you want me to write your little scary story.”

“Have I tell you how much I love the way you catch things on?”

“I’m not a writer, Freddie.”

“Didn’t you publish a paper or something?”

“That’s different.”

“If someone can write a good horror story is you. You don’t even have to worry about your name, I’ll put it under anonymous.”

“Still no, writing fiction isn’t my forte.”

“I’m sure you can synchronize with Poe or Lovecraft and canalize them to make something.”

“What I do isn’t mediumship, if you believe in such things.”

“Pleease, please, I’ll owe you one.”

“You already owe me a lot and I’m still waiting to see payment.”

“I’ll put a donation bottom for your little dog shelter.”

“... ... fine, but I’m writing about you being eating by a werewolf.”

“That’s good, just make the werewolf hot.”

“ _What_?”

Will didn’t write about hot werewolves, instead he genuinely tried to write an standard and realistic enough story about a killer, since it was after all the reason people visited TattleCrime in the first place. 

Halloween came and went and after the weeks of November passed, Will surprisingly received an invitation for thanksgiving from the Bowmans. It promised to be a relaxed affair because only their youngest daughter will be there <the other two were out of the state and had plans of their own> and so the Bowmans had more than free room. In the months working with Nolan and Rachelle while pretending he wasn’t a few levels of insane, Will easily endeared himself to them if only because the couple always wanted a _boy_ and after three daughters they opted to stop trying. It was a little harrowing being the one chosen to fill such role in someone else’s life even if it was just a harmless projection of a desire never fulfilled. That and his natural hate for social gatherings made him almost decline instantly the invitation but instead he found himself _again_ <like many times before> talking with Freddie about his little menial problems.

If Will didn’t watch it Freddie was going to start getting the wrong idea and think they were something like, _ugh_ , friends. 

“Sometimes I wonder if I should start charging you a therapist fee.”

“Talking about murder is fine but you draw the line at my personal life?”

“No offense, Graham, but your personal life is a little boring which is why I suggest you accept the invitation.”

“Leaving aside the fact that socializing exhausts me, going would do nothing but encourage them to see me as a replacement for their son.”

“You can’t replace someone that never existed, besides I think they would be great for you because I’m going to be honest here, if you die I’ll take your dogs to the shelter but I can’t promise to make sure they go to good homes, you know I’m a busy woman. But if you’re friends with Mr. and Mrs. I Love Dogs, you can be sure they’ll take care of them in your memory’s name.”

“Thanks for the heads up, I already knew I can’t count on you but I appreciate the truth. As for the other, I’m not going to insert myself in their lives so I can manipulate them into looking after my dogs when I’m dead.”

“Is not manipulation if it comes from a place of caring.”

“I’m glad you decided to write about crimes instead of running a life advice column.”

“Just take the invite and stop overthinking it, that’s my final word on the matter. Okay, next topic, there’s something else we need to talk about.”

“Must feel good having all the power in this court.”

“Oh, shush, this involves you too. Your story was really popular on the site so I’ve been thinking that maybe we can make it a monthly occurrence, twice if it takes off.”

“Absolutely no, that was a one-time thing.”

“Just think about it, if it goes really well I can give you some revenue, I mean I’m sure you can always use more money for your dogs, especially the ones you’ll get in the future.”

“...goddamnit, Freddie.”

Will accepted because clearly Freddie’s proposition came from a place of “ _caring_ ” and in truth he couldn’t be bothered anymore, it was easier to roll with anything Freddie wanted as long as it didn’t get him in jail. And if he also went to the Bowmans’ thanksgiving in retalation of what he decided was his final failed attempt to form any kind of bond with Alana, that was his business. Dinner was as awkward and draining as he knew it would be... but in the end he didn’t regret it, in fact he nearly felt proud of himself.

Will spent the Christmas night snuggled up with his dogs in the floor close to the fire of the chimney wearing the sweater the Bowmans gave to him, while in the table rested the cookies he got from Amy and a bottle of whiskey from Freddie. One of the things he tended not to do was looking back, because if he fixed his gaze too much into the past he felt it would bring the things he tried to leave behind, however at that moment, feeling warm and in charge of the little changes in his life <whether they were forced or not>, that Christmas felt like an improvement compared the one last year. If anything, he had one more dog and that always was an upgrade.

And one night, months later, he woke up bathed in cold sweat, shivering and feeling the violent beat of his heart against is chest and the first thing he thought wasn’t about how much he wanted to be able to escape the horrors that plagued the realm of his dreams, which until not long ago did nothing but to seed doubts... no, the first thing he thought in that moment was _what a good story this would make_ and Will knew then that things will work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the last about Will's backstory (I'm not too sure if the structure made clear what this has been all about). I felt the need to show how things changed in Will's life because Freddie was there, something like when you throw a snowball down a hill.


	3. Chapter 3

Turns out publishing a book was as exciting as publishing a journal article, with the difference that the second was less of a hassle. 

After months of Will writing stories for Freddie at a steady rate, she came out with one of her usual outrageous ideas, probably inspired by the success of her own book. In light of the good reception of TattleCrime’s “Murder Bookshop” <the corny name used to tag Will’s stories>, she thought of making the “bookshop” part more literal and suggested taking the best stories on the site to make an anthology with the addition of stories written exclusively for the proposed printed version. 

Knowing how useless was to try to automatically refuse, he just quietly sat to hear the woman’s sales pitch where she highlighted benefits like money, Will’s continued privacy by the use of a pseudonym and the cero need to face-to-face interaction with the editor all while trying to gloss over the fact she intended to get compensation in some way or another.

And so he let her finish, they discussed about it, they disagreed <Will said _fuck no_ , Freddie said _don’t you love your dogs?_ > and then the next day Will went a got himself some legal advice; just because he preferred to be indolent in his attempts to refuse Freddie’s schemes it didn’t mean he was going to involve himself with Freddie in a legal manner without proper thought and a _lawyer_. He was a disturbed individual, not a stupid one.

Long story short: they came to an arrangement <a _written_ one>, Freddie took charge of promoting and Will spent the next few months trying to learn the basics of the so-called “professional” writing and drinking whiskey while exchanging passive-aggressive emails with his editor at 3 a.m.

The result of all that work was Shin Doe, author of “Crimes to tattle on”, a compilation of short horror stories.

Will hated the title but he was catering to Freddie’s readers after all and to be honest he was just glad to be done with everything. In the end the book was a moderate success and the extra income wasn’t so bad to have, so all the trouble he went through was justified but not something he was eager to try in again. Which is why he should’ve assumed that was exactly what was going to happen.

“ _Sooo._ ” Said Freddie in one of the rare instances when Will was at her house.

“What do you want now?”

“You don’t have to sound so put out about it.”

“I know you’re about to ask me for something and the answer is no.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“Freddie, I’ve stayed up until 5 a.m. grading papers, I’m too tired for this so just cut to the chase.”

“Ugh, okay. One of the stories you wrote for the book, ashes to ashes, remember that one? Well turns out everyone loves it and I’ve been talking with Becka and she thinks we have something really special there and _well_ , today she said that if you can come up with a plot and a draft we can negotiate the possibility of a whole book with the character.”

Will would forever remember the way his stomach hurt in that moment while he regretted, not for the first time, meeting Freddie. 

Ashes to Ashes was born from an unfortunate lapse in his judgement. It was a combination of stress, time pressure and the preparation of one of his classes that touched the topic of the Chesapeake Ripper, who was one of <if not> the most infamous serial killer in the region. At the time it was so easy to delve into what he could glimpse of the Ripper's mind to the point it felt natural to write about it... but to willingly walk the paths of such macabre place that made his nightmares pale just to write a story was frivolous at best and a depravity at worst.

And so he turned down the idea altogether and he and Freddie had their first real fight.

That should’ve been the end of it, but it wasn’t.

Now that Freddie inadvertently opened the gates of his forts to that particular brand of madness, he entertained ideas in his musings that he never considered before the lid of his own Pandora’s box was lifted. His waking moments became full of thoughts he didn’t dare to speak aloud and his time in the deeps of his dreams wasn’t sorely his anymore, the Ripper was always there, sometimes a shadow, sometimes a brutal force that shredded him apart and more than once it was _in_ Will while he teared disgraceful bodies and made art of them. But the worst... the worst it was that it didn’t bother him as it should have, all that violent savagery, the blood, the death, they didn’t make him cower but left him with itching hands to do _something_ about it, _anything_. He rationalized it as a pavlovian response he accidentally brought on himself with all those months of pouring his nightmares into written words.

And like an addiction, he cave in.

Freddie was, of course, thrilled for having him back on board with her plans, and oh boy, planned they did over the course of the next days because Will couldn’t start writing a book without a name for the character that apparently picked everyone’s interest. So they began there, with a name. 

“I don’t know, Vladimir Nádasdy sounds a little too on the nose.”

“That’s the intention, to make it ridiculous to the point of being cartoonish.”

“Is still tacky, Graham.”

“I don’t take criticism from the one that came out with the West Coast Trasher name.”

“Hey! I liked that one.”

“That just supports my case.”

Creating a fictional character using the template that Will had in his mind of the real Chesapeake Ripper wasn’t really challenging, not with all the obsessive work he put in the weeks leading to him finally agreeing to the book proposal. While he was missing a lot of the pieces of the puzzle, he was a bit confident in the way he profiled the Ripper that was slightly different from what the FBI made public. 

“Why London? The guy is so into art, maybe somewhere else more artistic is better. What about Venice, wasn’t Leonardo from there?”

“No, but that’s not important. London is fine for what I have in mind.”

Will was playing already a dangerous game and didn’t need to high up the stakes even more.

While being wholly fixated and losing more and more of his mind researching everything he could about the Ripper, he had a hunch and so he looked up for very specific crimes in those “artistic” countries Freddie was thinking about. After some deliberation with new information, he came out with two theories: the Ripper was responsible for some murders on Italy _or_ he was inspired by those said murders. Will wasn’t going to fuck around with that for fear of being right; he didn’t want to have the Ripper knocking on his door for getting to close to the truth. His dogs needed him alive, thank you very much.

“It’s just... if the guy is so rich, why he bothers killing?”

“Remind me to show you the Carson Hayley case, he was a millionaire. Granted he was young when he first killed and it was part of the motivations for his crimes but money or not, everybody has the capacity for murder. And in this particular instance, it serves two purposes, money makes it really convenient for Vlad to pull the stunts he does—”

“We’re not calling him that.”

“And because the money came from his parents dead at the hands of a crime still unsolved, it makes him sympathetic at a first instance while supporting his unusual decision of working as a private detective that only takes cold cases from family members looking for closure.”

“Oh, he's so evil, I love it.”

Will had no idea if the Ripper was some sort of millionaire but it was a given he had money because his kills reflected an intimate knowledge of the arts <which usually was a luxury that came with privilege> and sometimes he used materials of the highest quality in his gruesome displays. On the other hand, choosing a private detective over other careers seemed like a safe choice, because the Ripper undoubtedly had medical training of some sort so the chances of him working on that field were considerable. But just to be really sure he would throw something more to the mix. 

“So he just puts it into the paint?”

“Yes and no. The plot will heavily implied it but is a red herring.”

“So what does he really do with the parts he takes?”

“I’m... still working on that, I’ll burn that bridge when I get there.”

“That’s not how the saying goes.”

“I know, is still what I meant.”

Of course Will had some theories about why the Ripper took “trophies” but it was one of the various things he wasn’t sure enough about to bet on and at the moment it didn’t matter for their current purposes, because he intended to come out with something of his own invention for his fictional killer. 

“Shouldn’t be something special about the way he chooses his victims?”

“Maybe he just kills tabloid reporters because he hates the quality of their work.”

“Ha. Ha, look at how much I’m laughing.”

“You always tell me I need to joke around more.”

“Add dogs to his killing pool and I’m in.”

“Freddie! What the hell?”

“Yeah, you’re right, killing dogs always upsets the public more than killing people... are you sure he can’t at least injure one dog?”

“Fuck off.”

“I hope you know this officially makes us friends and we’re going to celebrate but not now, we’re not done with this, we need a good reason.”

“It has to be something remarkably inane, something so nonsensical that no one could guess the motive until is pointed out.”

“Like what? He kills the ones that forget to say please and thank you?”

“... ... you know? That could actually work.”

“Wait, _seriously_?”

After days filled of coffee, take-out and whiskey, with Will temporally crashing in Freddie’s living room couch and going to work with few hours of sleep, pouring energy drinks on his thermos and swallowing multivitamins curtesy of his host, all while missing his dogs but comforting himself with the photos and videos that Amy and the Bowmans were sending, he _finally_ finished the rough draft of the introduction and first chapter. And after all that effort, Will’s only hope was that the whole thing made enough of a good impression to be green-lighted.

_And_ that was how Demian Kilder, wealthy private detective with a Juris Doctor degree, intelligent Englishman living in USA, socialite, art collector, hobbyist painter, lover of the finer things in life... and creative serial killer on the side, **was born**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how editorials work, please just roll with it.
> 
> Edit: ok you win, have some Hannibal next.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting to deal with Hannibal's side so soon. My english is self-taught (hence limited) and I find challenging Hannibal's POV, that's why I wanted to postpone it as long as possible, but I didn't expect the enthusiasm for seeing his reaction to the book and now I feel is gonna be pretty anticlimactic if post what I originally planned for chapter 4. 
> 
> So I decided to bite the bullet and at the very least write the part of Hannibal's reaction before resuming my original outline.

Despite the infamy surrounding the TattleCrime page <all with good reason>, Hannibal found it exhilarating.

Freddie Lounds was an opportunistic, tactless, ambitious amoral woman. The articles she wrote relied on exaggerations, false equivalences, sensationalism and a dose of morbid exposition to corpses yet Freddie was extremely good at making assumptions, giving meaning to crime scenes, analyzing murderers’ motives, forming hypotheses and arranging profiles. Hannibal sometimes found some distaste in agreeing with the woman’s conjectures but he supposed that in the grand scheme of the creation some animals were to be expected to be capable of displaying a spark of cognizance once or twice.

Outside of their articles covering crimes, neither Freddie nor TattleCrime had anything else to offer that merited the slightest glimpse, which was why Hannibal had always ignored each of their sections as if they didn't exist, even when Freddie took special care in using obtrusive pop-ups and showy banners when she promoted any of the products she was trying to sell.

There were, tragically, a limited number of things that could hold Hannibal's attention so he was careful not to use his entertainment sources too quickly, but despite the cautious distribution of his resources it was impossible to prevent, from time to time, being utterly bored. Such was the cross he had to carry with a mind as unparalleled as his.

So it was a fateful day when, after a session with one of his most boring patients <who was ironically good at testing his patience>, Hannibal decided to spend the time before his next appointment taking a look at the bad reputed TattleCrime site, which ended being as disappointing as his last patient since there were no new articles. Hannibal hated useless endeavors reason why he allowed to dignify with a glance for the first time what Freddie was announcing on that occasion: the incoming second volume of "Crimes to tattle on." Hannibal doubted that the first part merited a second but junk literature always found its way into bookstores; fortunately for the mediocre writer being endorsed by Miss Lounds, Hannibal tended to occasionally consume subpar media in order to keep up with the ordinary mentality of the masses and so he ordered the first volume, expecting nothing but dullness from it.

Hannibal was methodical to a fault and planned accordingly to it. Surprises were unwelcomed in his life, with only two exceptions: if it was entertaining _or_ made him curious. It was then a rare treat when the book backed by TattleCrime managed to do both.

He had not expected that a book named so foolishly would hide within its pages a treasure made of words. Each one of the stories contained there possessed some kind of beauty, like instruments in an orchestra, each perfectly playing its part to form together the magnificence of a symphony. While it was true that the touch of an unseasoned writer was noticeable, that worked in the book’s favor since the stories felt born from a more honest place, less fabricated to fill some criteria from the industry.

Satisfied that his time had not been wasted, Hannibal followed the book's suggestion and searched on TattleCrime for the other stories that had not been published, finding then that after the first volume was printed, the author reduced the frequency of their shared works but continued to have a relatively constant presence on the site. Not all the works there were masterpieces but none of them was without its charm.

With his curiosity awaken, he chose to order the author’s other published book: “Smoke in your eyes”. The plot seemed trite and a departure from their previous work, which usually was the downfall of countless of creators looking to branch out but Hannibal was generous enough to give the benefit of the doubt.

Once he had it on his hands, the book was stored in his study for a few weeks waiting for Hannibal to have time in his busy schedule, which finally happened one weekend when he decided to take a little respite. So once everything was left in order after one of his typical industrious dinners, he prepared himself for a couple of hours of reading accompanied by some Barolo wine.

One by one the minutes began to tick off as his eyes devoured letters without pause. And page after page soon became a dozen and soon after a hundred. The hours were gone one followed by another, and another; the clock was left ignored and the wine glass completely forgotten. The night progressed as Hannibal continued to read diligently; what had started out as a relaxing activity soon reversed and his muscles tensed at times as he read on, unable to stop once the plot began to throw up little clues made to be ignored at first glance, inconspicuous tiny crumbs carefully placed on the side of the road with the intention of not being seen until one went back looking for them once its existence was made known. They there were, like messenger crows cawing prophecies in the ears of those who couldn’t understand them, but _he_ was different, Hannibal _knew_ the language they were speaking. At times he had to make the conscious decision to loosen his jaw when it had become too forcefully clenched, in the same way that his rigid posture made his neck crack on more than one occasion, but all physical discomforts were overlooked in the face of what he was witnessing. By the time he finally finished reading, the sun had already risen and a new day made its appearance, the world outside was the same but Hannibal’s understanding of how everything worked on it was changed.

He had to use his self-control to not tear the book apart once he read the last word, teeth grinding in his mouth and knuckles white with the force with which he was holding it. He took a deep breath and forced himself to place the book gently on the table where the half-finished glass of wine sat abandoned.

For the first time in a long time Hannibal couldn't immediately recognize what he was feeling but if he had to put it into words... _lost_ was the closest he could discern. The questions were there but no answers in sight. But Hannibal was a master at compartmentalization and not long after he was back into himself: calm, collected and calculating.

It took longer than he would’ve liked but soon enough he had a schematic displayed before his eyes like the map on a table of a war room, with pieces on it scattered in disarray that only needed to be placed in their proper area. The first of them was the simplest to position: the contents of the book were not a coincidence, even if the capricious fate decided that someone out there had accidentally painted that composition, nobody could have made such precise brush strokes without them being carefully premeditated.

As astonishing as it was, someone managed to _see_ him, not only his disguise but what it was underneath it and in their whims they dared to put Hannibal in a dissection table, taking him apart with careless fingers and coarse skill. And after they were done with their butchery, they chose with foul eyes and conceited ego the _parts_ they _decided_ Hannibal was made of, just to take those ill selected pieces and make a distasteful parody with them, a flawed doppelgänger, a full mockery of Hannibal’s own self.

He allowed himself to be consumed by wrath for a few moments before proceeding to arrange the next piece on his board. Whoever was responsible, they weren’t interested in his capture and in light of their crude imitation of an autopsy it was obvious they knew _what_ was under the mask but not _who_ the face they were looking at belonged to. The fact that they had such intimate knowledge of Hannibal in their hands and they used it to create a cheap literary counterfeit instead of trying to bring him to “justice” was just one more offense on a growing list.

Moving on to his third piece, Hannibal quickly went to look for information on Shin Doe... only to found nothing. It was a given that the name was a _nom de plume_ , but he expected at least to see it linked to somewhere. It was a waste of time to even entertain the idea that Freddie Lounds was the author and before he tried to personally get answers from her <because she would not survive that>, he wanted to exhaust all the rest of the venues.

After all the trouble this writer put into concealing themselves, this John Doe that was so adamant to be unknown like the value of X in an unsolved equation, happy to stay in the safety of the dark all while trifling with the core of Hannibal’s identity...

Well, something had to be done about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I tried ｡･ﾟﾟ･(థ Д థ。)･ﾟﾟ･｡


	5. Chapter 5

Will’s “vacation” routine didn’t change much from his normal schedule: ignoring his alarm clock, taking care of his little pack of dogs next, eating the first thing he could found in the kitchen, getting ready to go out after directing the dogs to the fenced backyard he built especially for his growing pack, a good decision because recently he adopted his eight dog.

The time it took to drive from his home to Baltimore was considerable but these days it was a journey he traveled with much less frequently than he did when working as a professor a few years ago, so it was more tolerable now. Currently most of his trips were related to Freddie Lounds, since the woman loved to monopolize his free time, but he couldn’t complain because unfortunately it was thanks to her that he had free time to begin with.

That particular day they agreed to meet at one of the coffee shops they had been frequenting for years to the point where they had a favorite table and even knew the owner. When Will arrived at the “Coffee Jar” earlier than agreed he found it relatively empty which made sense for the time and day <that was one of the reasons they choose that time slot>. As usual he ordered an Americano for him and the most sugary thing on the menu for Freddie; he sat at their favorite table to wait for Freddie who appeared minutes after their orders were completed.

“You’re already here, good,” she said as soon as she sat down. “Let’s make this quick, I have to go somewhere else, last minute thing.”

“I thought you wanted my opinion.”

“Yeah but this is important too, I’ve been interviewing some people on the Hobbs case and I got in contact with the girl’s best friend and it seems you were right about her helping her dad.”

“I’m always right.” He said with derision.

“Of course you are, sweetie,” she cooed making him roll his eyes. “I have tons of info I need you to look at so come stay the night at my house.”

“I’m supposed to be resting, in theory I’m on vacation.”

“Which is why this is a sleepover too! I’ll paint your nails and you can choose the movie.”

“Freddie.” He said exasperated. 

“I have those cookies you like and I put new sheets in the guest room bed, blue like your eyes,” and she fluttered her eyelashes with a big smile. “Pleease.” She added for good measure.

It was true that Will had no plans to stop him from accepting but he still pretended to think about it. “Uggh,” he exclaimed in an exaggerated way. “Fine, but we’re watching All Dogs Go to Heaven.”

“ _Again_?” she whined. “God, you’re so depressing, Graham.”

“Take it or leave it.” It was clear Freddie didn’t have more option than accept it so she just huffed with faked indignation.

“At what time are you coming by?”

“In the evening, I’ll text you before I leave.”

“Good, I think I have enough time to get home first. Moving on, here.”

Freddie proceeded to rummage in her purse, pulling out a red book that Will recognized instantly <it was, after all, the second volume of the first book he wrote> and she placed it on the table, knocking her knuckles against its rigid surface.

“Finally hard cover, baby.” She said with a satisfied smile.

“They sent me a copy yesterday.”

“Well I got two but now instead of giving this one you can sign it and we’ll use it for a giveaway.”

There weren't many things Will wanted to openly approve of Freddie but her unwavering focus when it came to her business merited at least a pat on the back.

“I have something else for you.”

The woman went back to digging into her bag and this time she took out a black eyeglasses case that she opened before placing it on the table, facing Will. Freddie made a motion with her hand for him to take them from the case so he did. The rectangular frame was made of dark red plastic and it didn't seem to be anything remarkable until he turned them and saw that on the left hinge close to the end piece were embedded two small metal letters on a gothic font that read "DK".

“Contrary at what you may believe,” he said with solemnity he didn’t feel. “I’m not so enamored with my work that I have to literally wear it on my face.”

“You should be more grateful, those are custom made. It’s supposed to look like blood.”

At Freddie's clarification he looked at them again and realized that indeed he could see different shades in the intensity of the red and patterns of transparencies in the plastic of the frame, so he quickly returned the glasses to the case with a firm movement.

“Stop giving me creepy shit.” Will said with an off-putting tone.

“Is for aesthetic purposes.”

“Remember at the beginning when we started to meet and you used to look at me like I was this psychopathic homicidal maniac itching to get my hands around your throat? What happened to that? How we came from there to you giving me blood glasses? And the thermos too, what’s it with you and blood?”

“I mean,” she said finally taking her cup of coffee and giving a little a sip. “After all the things we've been through together, what’s a little blood between friends?” she raised her cup in the hair and chirpily followed. “Cheers!”

“I feel like at some point while I was looking away you became a serial killer and I’m just dumb enough to not realize it yet, so you’re just taunting me.”

“That's the D.K. spirit!”

Will wasn’t, in fact, dumb, so of course he knew why Freddie was so insistent on giving him an “aesthetic”; she’ll just have to keep wasting her money while forever waiting because he was never going to go public about his authorship on TattleCrime’s best sellers.

They chatted for a few more minutes before Freddie said her goodbyes, stood up and with a quick movement of her hand just as she passed by his side she unceremoniously took the glasses he was wearing, making him yelp as he turned around only to see her walk away while giggling. Not wanting to make an unnecessary scene, Will simply sighed and after a few moments of consideration proceeded to take the red glasses that had been left behind on the table and put them on, refusing to imagine what he looked like with them.

He slowly finished the cup of coffee on his hands and before leaving he asked for another one to go because caffeine was always welcomed in his life, especially in quantities that weren’t known for being healthy. Once he got his second order he made his way to the exit, opened the door smoothly and once outside after taking a few steps just as he was going to have a drink, someone bumped into him and made him spill some of the coffee over his shirt and jacket.

“Watch it!” He screamed with irritation.

“My apologies, I'm terribly sorry, please allow me.”

Will was really good at taking things in, whether it was something heard, seen or just his surroundings, but at that moment he felt too much was happening at once for his liking.

First was the voice that spoke to him with a good deal of politeness and an accent he couldn’t place, said voice seemed to belong exactly to the type of person one could imagine just by hearing it: a well-dressed man in a three piece gray plaid suit, white shirt and a purple tie matching with a pocket square... absolutely not the type of clientele that frequented Coffee Jar, that was for sure. Even if Will could disregard this pristine man with his ash blond hair perfectly combed to one side and not react to him more than he already did, he bristled like a cat taking a step back when the stranger tried to dry the coffee stains with a handkerchief.

Mr. Suit accepted his rejection with grace and his confident posture didn’t falter in the very least.

“I apologize again, I’m usually not this clumsy but I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere,” it sounded fake to Will but okay. “Let me replace your beverage.”

“Is fine,” he forced himself to say intently looking at the purple tie. “Accidents happen, this is actually my second cup and I still have most of it.”

And that was it, that was all Will intended for this to be. He took the first step to continue on his way but the man extended his right hand with the intention to place it on Will’s arm which automatically made him to stop instantly in order to avoid contact.

“Even then I still feel indebted, if you are amenable I can make it up to you in some other way. I would love to have you for dinner.”

He was so glad Freddie was the only person he usually speak his mind freely to, so he could easily restrain himself from speaking out of line with the rest of the world, like just now, because the first thing that came to his mind in response to the last part of what the man said was something close to “ _like in a sexual manner or a cannibalistic one?_ ” because his mind was a free thing these days, always looking to be out of the box when there was the chance for it... for her part Freddie called that “him trying to be a smartass” but to-may-to, to-mah-to.

Multiple meanings aside, Will wasn’t good at socializing <that’ll always be an universal truth> but he understood the basics enough to pretend and he was sure that wasn’t normal. Like you don’t accidentally do something like step on someone’s new shoes and go “let me repay you with dinner”, that’s not how it worked, right? _Right_? But this man seemed to think that a dinner with him was good enough as to be considered some kind of compensation.

Yeah, that would be a no.

“Thank you but is unnecessary.”

“Do you always do things based on necessity?”

Will felt the well-known knee-jerk reaction of answering in a less than polite manner. “I do them based on my interest or the lack of it.” Will’s meaning was clear but that didn’t make the man waver either. 

“If you are sure,” he said it so proper like Will didn’t just called him boring. “Although I’m confident I can change your mind given the opportunity. Please accept my card, the least I can do is cover the dry cleaning services so don’t hesitate to call me.”

He almost rejected the silk laminated card that was offered to him but he really wanted the man out of his hair, so he took the card and read it... and then he had to intake a gulp of air and just keep it right there.

“Ah.” It was all what Will could finally softly utter.

“Is something the matter?”

Yes, there was, because Will was trying not to laugh. In any other occasion it would’ve been funny enough <in an ironic way> having a psychiatrist being an inadvertently source of annoyance... but _his_ name. Freddie fought him so hard to change the name “Vladimir Nádasdy” for anything else and all the while there were real people running around named something like _Hannibal Lecter_ , for fuck’s sake.

“No, no, it’s just, ah, the name, it made me think of a Carthaginian general. I don’t know if you’re familiar with him.”

The recently named Hannibal inclined his head in acknowledgment because of course someone like him would know the famous people he shared the name with. 

“Hannibal is a favored name in my family, I’m the eighth of my line.”

It almost pained Will to stay silent so he just maneuvered the card in his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose with his right thumb and index finger to try and keep it together; things were awkward enough without him bursting into laugh like a lunatic in the middle of the street. But god, _Dr. Hannibal Lecter the Eighth_... Vladimir with all of his allusions to Vlad Dracul sounded like such a reasonable name now.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said before the other could inquire about his strange behavior. “I have a headache,” to reinforce his lie he put his hand inside one of the pockets of his jacket leaving the card there to take out a bottle of aspirins that were there since the last time he wore the thing. “I already took some,” and he shacked the bottle before putting it back in his pocket again. “I’m just waiting for them to work,” and seeing that was a great moment to retreat he took the chance. “I should be going now, I have somewhere to be.”

“I understand. Make sure you contact me about the bill.”

“Yeah, sure.” _Like hell_.

“Before you go, if you don’t mind, I would like to have your name since you already know mine.”

He wasn't really willing to give his name to random people but it wasn’t like he was going to see that man again. “Will.”

“Will,” and it was something in the way he said it, like he was relishing it? That made him uneasy. “A pleasure that you are not a stranger anymore. Take care, I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Will just nodded and then practically fled not bothering to look back. It wasn’t just him, _right_? That encounter was in fact unusual. Will had a really small group of people <most of them odd> that he accidentally collected in these past years so even if his social skills were bad, he at least had a range of people from different circles to compare his notes.

_What a weirdo._ And he almost stopped walking because it was just... absurd. Totally laughable! The pinnacle of black comedy! He, the one that loved to walk across the waters from killer’s minds and made a living of thinking about death, violence and nightmares... _he_ just labeled someone else as weird. _What’s the world come to_? Laughing at himself Will decided to bury the topic for another time and so the rest of the day went as normal.

Later when he was at Freddie’s home while they were in her kitchen, he told her a short version of what happened after he left the coffee shop, leaving the big reveal of The Name for last... however when he gave her the card she didn’t react as he expected, in fact she didn’t react in any special way and remained silent for a few seconds until she finally gave him the same look she always wore when discussing business matters.

“Do you want me to run a background check on him?” Was the unexpected thing she said, making his eyes go wide with surprise.

“Wha—, why?”

“To be sure he’s safe.”

“Safe for what?” He spluttered.

“A stranger asking you for dinner, giving you his number and telling you to call him, oh gee, I wonder what’s that about.”

Will was a grown-ass man and he refused to blush for something so stupid. “It definitely wasn’t like that.”

“One time when I was taking pictures this guy came out of nowhere and said he loved taking pics too so maybe I could go to his home to see his work and stay for dinner. I said no, by the way.”

“Is not the same. And even if it was, which _it isn’t_ , I’m not interested.” And he crossed his arms trying to appear resolute. 

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a psychiatrist?”

“So?”

“We don’t like psychiatrists, Freddie.”

“Correction, we don’t like psychiatrists that try to study you. This one seems like the wants to do less professional things with you.”

“Kindly fuck off, thank you.”

And Will snatched the card from Freddie’s hands making her laugh and without stopping he went to where the bin was and pressed the pedal to throw the card in as soon as the lid went up.

Freddie was _so_ accursed, always opening doors to ideas he purposely didn’t try to entertain... but at least he had the comfort of knowing he would never had to deal with Dr. Hannibal Lecter the Eighth ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a small world, amirite?


	6. Chapter 6

Waking up from a nightmare was always the same for him: cold sweat, racing heartbeat and the aftermath of ghastly visions slipping in the corners of his mind... and as he had been doing for years now he closed his eyes again and let the nightmares come to him while awake.

He went back to being impaled in the antlers of Hobbs’ cabin of horrors just to pull himself free, walking with bleeding gaping holes and as he exited the cabin after taking a hunting knife he entered directly to the living room in the Hobbs house, taking in the little domestic family scene in front of his eyes before going to Hobbs’ wife and without faltering he sliced her throat, only to do the same with the daughter and finally with Hobbs himself. And then he dragged the man to that well-known red river he came to consider as his own and threw both of them into its waters; Hobbs body got carried away by the current but he stayed immovable in the stained water, surrounded by the corpses of Hobbs’ victims but feeling oh-so-peaceful.

Will opened his eyes again being pulled away from his semiconscious state after hearing his clock’s alarm. He took a few more moments before rising to start with his day and after doing everything he usually did, he proceeded to use measuring tape and got the size of each one of his eight dogs. That year Will actually had some wealth he could dispose of, so one of the things he wanted to do was to get his little family some of those ridiculous overpriced dog sweaters for the cold season and seeing October just started, it was the perfect time.

Will’s Baltimore trip that day didn’t have to do anything with Freddie for once. After deciding to take writing serious enough to make it his sole source of incoming, he started to collect books and read all he could in hopes of it being helpful for his work and so he made an habit of going in the first days of the month to one of the local bookstores to browse for new books. Routines were somewhat good for him and even after quitting his job he kept on frequenting some of the places he did when he was teaching even if driving to those places wasn’t time-efficient. The drive was uneventful and just a little past noon he entered the bookstore and as he always did first, he went looking for the new arrivals and restocked titles he was interested in and after that he started wandering as usual, aimlessly walking between shelves in search for anything that caught his attention.

He already had some books in his hands when he passed by a three tier rectangular display table that made him abruptly stop; it wasn’t like Will never saw before his books being advertised in a special place but it always felt as surreal as the first time. It was still so unbelievable that people actually liked what started as ramblings from his part, but that success was only a testament of how good Rebecca <his editor> was at her job. Maybe it was because he got lost on his thoughts that he didn’t even notice the careful but confident way in which someone stepped to his side.

“Will, what a fortuitous coincidence seeing you here.”

It was like someone threw a bucket of cold water at him. He didn’t jump but instantly straighten up at the same he turned to his left and froze. Will first thought was: “ _The hallucinations are back_ ” but in his astonishment he rationalized that even if he could hallucinate Hannibal Lecter’s voice to perfection and his posh appearance, he could never come up with such an ugly combination of a gingham forest green suit with a pink shirt and a floral brown tie... which meant that Hannibal was in fact, there, _right now_. 

He really would’ve preferred the hallucination instead.

“I’m inclined to believe more in luck than coincidences,” he said trying to sound normal while desperately thinking on how to flee this time. “Good luck and bad one.”

“And what would you classify this encounter as?”

“I’ll decide depending if you make me throw my books on the floor or not.” 

“It seems you already decided on a reputation for me,” despite the words his tone remained self-assured. “I waited for you to call.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, it seems I misplaced your card,” _in the trash_. “The stains came out easy, it wasn’t a problem.”

And that was an excellent moment for Will to excuse himself and disappear to get back to his plan of never seeing Hannibal ever again for the rest of his life but as he opened his mouth to say goodbye, the other spoke first.

“A fan of Doe, are you?” Such simple words but suddenly Will’s intent to retreat took second place.

“I wouldn't call myself a fan.” He answered almost in a mocking tone.

“And why is that? Do you disagree with the works?”

He did his best to stay calm. “I can’t disagree if there's not statements.”

“Oh, but they are there, I myself have seen an abundance of them.” He said confidently but without sounding pretentious.

The simple fact that not only Hannibal <from all of people> read his books and was apparently _so_ familiar with them, answered the question about what kind of luck Will was having at the moment. On the other hand he stopped reading what people had to say about his writing because honestly he had better things to do than seeing strangers arguing about it.

“Yeah, maybe they are,” and he just laughed without mirth. “They just went all over my head.”

“It could be possible you purposely, but not consciously, looked the other way in an attempt to ignore them. We tent to avoid things that bring us discomfort in whichever form makes itself present.”

Will was so baffled that he actually turned to his side to look directly to Hannibal’s face and he even tilted his head a little so the frame of his glasses didn’t obstruct his field of vision.

“Here I thought I was just coming to buy something, turns out is free therapy day at the store. I would’ve brought some unresolved issues with me if I had known.” And he let his usual sarcasm permeate his words, turning again to look at the books on display.

“Observation is what I do and at times is hard to shut it off. I would apologize but I fear I would keep doing it constantly, so I have to be mindful of using apologies sparingly.”

“No, no,” he even shacked his head in matching his words. “Please keep apologizing, if you do it enough times maybe one day the lesson will stay.” Will knew he wasn’t being entirely civil but the other started it! And so he stubbornly focused on glaring at the books on display because after all this was their fault in a way.

“If you grant me one more personal remark,” Hannibal said against everything Will expected. “Maybe your discomfort comes from the thematic of the works because they reflect the darkest parts of the human mind,” and Will desperately wanted to look at him again but he forced himself to stay put. “In that same sense I theorized that’s the reason the author chose anonymity, escaping from the public scrutiny. It must be a burden having all these violent thoughts and giving them their own voice must be the only way the author can create the illusion of control.”

Illusion of control, ah? Control is what Will had to _not_ just punch him in the face right there. This was one of the many reasons why he hated psychiatrists so much, but hey! At least this was a first in his life because he never got psychoanalyzed twice in one go before. He closed his eyes trying to appease the anger he felt, reminding himself that Hannibal was right from his point of view and as infuriating as it was he couldn’t just correct him... that didn’t mean he was just going to stay quiet.

“I prefer to let the authors tell me what they want to communicate through their work,” he said in the same detached way he used to spoke with his former students. “I can look at the message and take it as it is or I can choose to give it an interpretation in a myriad of different ways derived from the work itself, but I would _not_ make the authors the disservice of overlooking what they're trying to convey just wonder about their personal life instead.”

And Hannibal, of course, was fast to answer like one of his students trying to get brownie points. “Death of the author. That’s an interesting position to take but not an easy one. It begs a lot of argumentation about boundaries. Do we stop at things like the place of birth, religion, education? Or do we push it beyond socially reprehensible acts? Let’s take one of Doe’s characters since fiction is usually more digestible for exemplification,” and with instant dread Will knew he was too sober for this conversation. “While Demian Kilder is not a writer we can agree that death of the author can apply to him and his work. What do we do then, ignore the brutality of his actions in favor of admiring the delicacy of his paintings?”

Would it be too weird if Will just bolted in that instant? Running away like the building was on fire to never set foot in that place again. It was unlikely he would encounter Hannibal a third time and it was both a calming and a dangerous thought, because that made the possibility of just leaving without saying anything just as tempting as _saying all of it_. Will wasn’t a sinner looking to alleviate his conscience by falling on his knees in front of the confessional, he could easily keep his truths and lies and take them with him to the grave; he already shared more than enough with his writing. But he couldn’t deny there was an appeal in having the rare opportunity of just... being honest. 

“You’re wrong about the paintings,” Will finally said, taking his glasses off and putting them over his head to give him room to slowly rub his eyes with this fingers. “That’s not his real art.”

“I’m a little at lost, was there any other medium he was as dedicated as he was to his brush?”

Will put on his glasses again and pondered if it was wise to keep talking or if it was too late to just walk away. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“The crime scenes,” he started with a emotionless tone that clashed with the somber way in which he smiled. “There’s where his craft is, where his design lives. He's taking people he sees as hideous things, undeserving and wasteful and he's elevating them to the status of art, even if no one but him can appreciate it because he’s screaming his message but the public is deaf. Every one of his tableaus is a careful meaningful choice and even if all of them differ in some way or another, they all have something in common.” One part of him wanted to finish that sentence and the other just to shut up because he already sounded deranged enough in front of a perfect stranger which also happen to be a shrink.

But Hannibal’s tone when he talks next is still neutral. “What would that similarity be?”

“All are beautiful.”

He wondered if this was the second the good Doctor Lecter would ask him if he already went to what was clearly his mandatory annual visit to the loony bin, because honestly at that point Will didn’t know anymore if he was talking about his fictional character or the Chesapeake Ripper himself. And after some moments without answer Will risked a glance to his side; Hannibal’s expression didn’t look exactly judgmental but with something more like bewilderment and when he looked back at Will there was definitely interest dancing in his maroon eyes.

“Is that how you see him?” Hannibal asked with somewhat softer tone. “An artist, not a criminal?”

Will took the fact that Hannibal wasn’t acting like he thought him crazy as positive sign. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive, that’s the duality of human nature.”

“Good and evil?” and he sounded amused.

“Creation and destruction. And sometimes in creating, something needs to be destroyed first.”

Hannibal hummed and inclined his head a little. “Who would be born first must destroy a world.” He recited and Will had to contain his desire to smile.

“You read that book?” He didn’t specified which one because if Hannibal did he would know.

“Some years ago. I’ve been wondering if there was some relation between the names.”

It was childish from his part but it was always nice seeing someone guess right the meaning behind the name of his pseudo-Ripper instead of thinking it had something to do with demons or some horror pop culture reference.

“Maybe someday a trivia book will be released clarifying those things.” That sounded like something Freddie would do. 

“There were many things left unsaid and I like to have all the pieces of my puzzles.”

Will actually snorted at that. "Don’t we all?"

“Although a proper follow-up should be in order to get some of those pieces, a second part is preferable from the way things ended in the original.”

“Not everyone is an artist but everyone is a fucking critic,” rightfully Hannibal looked slightly offended but in a poorly pretended kind of way; it was such a ridiculous expression on a face like his that Will laughed before he could stop himself only to sober up in an instant. “Sorry, would you believe I was quoting a renowned artist?” He answered with a question using a dubitative tone on purpose seeing as Hannibal caught on from the beginning.

“The woes of the twentieth century art scene still resonate in our current one.”

And it was nice having someone just go along with the random things Will just threw there in the conversation just for the sake of it; easy understanding was always welcomed in his life, whether it was people not questioning his love for dogs to something like a pretty specific reference from some obscure media... clearly this was the sign for Will to take his leave before things escalated for the worst and something unspeakable happened, like ending on friendly terms with the psychiatrist he just recited an ode to artistic murder minutes ago. Also Hannibal was still the one who decided to lay psychoanalysis on him <and his writer persona> because he was an unrepentant know-it-all jerk, usually that would be offense enough to blacklist him but the real warning light was the fact that over the course of the conversation it was clear that Will was having problems reading him, which only meant it was exactly the kind of individual he should be staying away from.

He contemplated on taking his phone to pretend to look at the time but surely Hannibal would see the fake gesture for what it was so instead he straightened his back and tried to act with all the confidence he really didn’t felt. 

“It was—” _Unexpected, Interesting?, Exasperating!_ “Good talking to you but I need to get going, I have to buy some other stuff besides books before getting back home,” Will thought the short explanation was the minimum curtesy after their unorthodox talk. “Hope you find what you came looking for.”

“I did already,” and the smallest smile appeared on his lips. “If it isn’t too much to ask for, would you reconsider my invitation for dinner? I enjoyed our conversation and I’m sure we can have an encore over the table.”

Will’s thoughts became conflicted all at once. On one hand the only reason he allowed himself to be more open about how he interpreted the killings from his character <so intimately intertwined with the Chesapeake Ripper’s> was because he had the certainty this was his last time seeing Hannibal, in a way it was similar to a one-night stand destined to be forgotten... and that comparison brought him to the other point, because suddenly Freddie’s voice was all over the place urging him to accept the invitation while speaking about of unprofessionalism and creative forms of carrying with the mentioned encore over the table. Definitely Will’s luck was just bad overall. 

“I don't like to impose the misfortune of my company on others.”

Hannibal smiled openly this time, something akin to teasing in his voice when he spoke next. "Is it then your company a punishment, perhaps reserved only for the wicked?" 

Okay time to go, immediately, _now_.

"Something like that," honestly what else could Will say? "Goodbye, Hannibal."

Apparently being rejected for dinner twice and dismissed did nothing to the man’s ego because his expression looked entirely too placid. "Until later, Will."

Despite the unusual meeting, Will’s day went on as any other one: he bought the sweaters for his dogs, new books and some things for his pantry, made plans with one of his “friends” and did the laundry. Nothing changed in his world that day or the next one or the next. And even if the conversation he shared with Hannibal kept on resonating in the confines of his thoughts at first, soon it started to fade because his mind was a crowded place always in need of space; out with the old, in with the new... and by the time he was trying to keep up with Freddie’s request of autographed posters for the horror themed annual convention she’ll attend as the face of TattleCrime and in Shin Doe’s representation, Dr. Lecter was just a pale shadow in his memory.

And then one chilly Wednesday morning he heard insistent knocking on his door and when he opened it he found a familiar face on the other side.

“Will Graham?” Said the uninvited visitor.

Will didn’t even delved into the other’s appearance because this was someone he regularly saw on Freddie’s desk in a photo riddled with star-head thumbtacks <one for each time she was retained by the FBI>.

“I am. What are you doing here?”

“I’m Jack Crawford from the FBI, Head of the Behavioral Science Unit,” he extended his hand but Will didn’t take it and after a few seconds the man dropped it trying to continue in a casual manner. “I planned to call first but it seems you changed your phone number,” he said all open and candid and confident. Will was instantly on alert. “May I come in?”

To this he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “I don’t want to let the dogs out,” the lie was bad but the meaning was clear: Jack was unwanted there. “You still haven't answered the question, what are you doing here?”

“I was told you have difficulties being social so I understand your reluctance,” Will actually got good at pretending being social, so that wasn’t really his problem here. “Where do you fall on the spectrum?”

And then Hannibal Lecter was back again on his mind because Will reacted to Jack’s question in the same way he did days back when the doctor _assumed_ why Will didn’t catch deep meanings in his own fucking writing. If Will was the one with bad social skills why were the “good adapted people” acting like uncivilized pricks?

“I have trouble following. Why is the FBI in my door asking me where do I fall in the spectrum? Is this the new procedure before reciting my rights?”

“Oh, no, no, I think we started all this wrong, I apologize. We share an acquaintance, Alana Bloom. She said you had an unique ability.”

“Ability isn’t the way I’d put it.”

“And how do you call it?”

Any other day Will would refer to his empathy as just as overactive imagination... but not today. “A magic crystal ball, I look into the mist and sometimes I get answers.” Jack looked taken aback and Will would’ve found it funny if he wasn’t mad because he already knew where this was going.

“Well, I...” and he semeed not all willing of saying the next words. “Can I ask you to look into the mist for me?”

And Will took pleasure in knowing that at that moment Jack felt as _dumb_ as his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Will's gonna stay away from the FBI.  
> Also me: You know what? Will deserved better from Jack, let's put him in his place srsly #justice4will
> 
> In all truth this is just for plot reasons, I'm trying to accomplish two things with this. Also technically Will did in fact stay away from the FBI and Hannibal already found him, sooo the summary is still accurate.
> 
> P.S. I'm not good with symbolism or descriptions, I tried.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is short pls don't @me

Hannibal possessed a broad list of qualities, some innate, some self-imposed. Within that considerable number of characteristics that made him so efficient and lethal, it was _patience_ the one responsible in largest part for his success. While the waiting would lead others to be dragged to the brink of desperation, for him it was simply one part of the process and even at times made the final conclusion more rewarding, as the easy victories sometimes tended to be the most boring ones as well.

Despite not knowing yet the identity of the person responsible for using his image for something so asinine as a tawdry fictional character in order, no doubt, to get some ill-conceived relevance in the literary world, Hannibal decided to proceed with that hunt with the same careful rhythm as any other of his enterprises. No matter how much this white whale tried to hide in the deeps of the ocean, nowhere would be enough to escape him.

Thus his search began in the place where all discord started like Eris with her apple: TattleCrime.

Prior to their first work published on the thirty-one of October some years ago, there didn’t appear to be any other indication of Doe’s previous involvement with the site as Freddie had been the only one in charge of posting until that point. Although the limitations in Miss Lounds’ proved useless consider her as the mind behind Shin Doe, Hannibal wouldn’t have gotten to where he was if it weren’t for the fact that he never left things to chance or overconfidence make him rule out possibilities no matter how far-fetched they might sound. So with dissatisfaction but always true to his own method, Hannibal purchased the first book from Freddie Lounds, assuming that it was more likely to find signs <in the extraordinary case they existed> in the book that had been published months after the first one of Doe’s stories appeared on the site.

Freddie’s book was atrocious to the point of offense but within the pages of mediocre writing Hannibal found an extremely valuable piece of information: a criminal profile. In the midst of Freddie’s dramatic and clearly exaggerated recounting of events, attached was a lone transcript of a Brendon Thacker’s profile with just a single line casually clarifying the information was provided by a party outside the police and the FBI.

A new possibility had been born with the revelation of a fact that answered questions he had not asked and transformed Freddie Lounds in a creature that made more sense when analyzed with this new knowledge. When she wasn’t speculating on criminals the things she wrote were terribly pedestrian as if that spark of intellect lived solely between the meanings of crime scenes and the constructs of the murderers’ minds... but if Miss Lounds was secretly getting external help for her articles then it was understandable why the rest of what she wrote was always so lacking.

To verify or discard that theory, Hannibal took the more immediate route and proceeded to read the first articles published in the history of TattleCrime. He read months and months of articles from the first year of the page’s existence until he was finally able to pinpoint _exactly_ which article was the one where Freddie started to make genuine conjectures instead of just trying to land a guess; from that article the rest of her publications didn’t fail to provide valid speculations about the criminals of whom she spoke of. The change was too precise, too convenient to be a natural evolution of her own abilities, unfortunately it wasn’t enough information to assume that the responsible for that turn in the articles was the same person who had provided Thacker’s profile or the one behind Doe’s identity.

If Hannibal decided to accept that idea as a possibility it would left him with three puzzles instead of one, all of them with missing pieces.

But it was not only patience that brought victories to his feet but his amazing ability to identify elements that alone would be insignificant, but seen through the right lens were capable of bringing opportunities that would never otherwise arise. When Hannibal felt up to entertaining the fictitious idea that there were guiding forces other than his own, he liked to think that Caerus favored his steps.

And so an unimportant piece of information that he stored because of the way in which it deviated from the usual behavior of Miss Lounds went from being an insignificant light in the distance to become a lighthouse in the middle of a starless night.

Freddie was as ruthless as a natural disaster who made no distinction between its victims because no one was safe from her scrutiny when she was chasing stories: things like privacy, respect for the grieving or compassion for the survivors didn’t exist on the brutal scale on which she judged everyone, there was no mercy for the living, the dead, their families <whether they were from the victims side or the criminals’>, friends, acquaintances and anyone who had something to contribute to her pseudo investigative work; for her everybody was fair game. In a way Hannibal found it commendable that the woman was so terribly objective in the pursuit of her ambitions... so it was a curiosity then, to say the least, when he encountered an instance where she restrained herself.

Years ago Miss Lounds had been involved in an theft that went wrong, something quite insignificant considering the more interesting things that would happen to her later when she became a recognized figure in the world of criminal reporting. The first article she wrote about it perfectly covered that night where Freddie played the _hero_ by calling 911 to help the other unfortunate person who was with her during the incident and got stabbed at the scene. Freddie dedicated two more articles exclusively to such event before relegating it to oblivion when the person responsible was never found and she had more interesting things to write about.

What she _did not do_ was to make any further mention of the other victim of the attack: Will Graham. Beyond the first article in which she even included a photograph of the crime scene where one could see Mr. Graham sitting on the ground with the red of his blood barely distinguishable by the camera flash, his name became conspicuous by its absence in the other two articles, without Freddie even bothering to follow up on his recovery which was quite unusual considering how she bragged about her noble actions by staying with him in the ER.

What was so special about Mr. Graham for Freddie to so effectively left him alone? Even when she had to refrain from speaking of any entity when the threat of a lawsuit was on her shoulders she made sure to clarify that little detail so that she would always had the last word.

Hannibal chose as his next task to clarify the identity of Mr. Graham, more to satisfy his curiosity than believing it would lead him somewhere. Although his initial research was not very promising, when he finally found something about the man Miss Lounds had been so proud to _save_ to then just forgot about him, Hannibal had to admit that his conclusion about how irrelevant that man was had been somewhat... premature. Just as the only acceptable surprises in his life were those that provided for his entertainment, the only tolerable errors in judgment were those that contradicted him in beneficial ways.

Will Graham, who was a former homicide detective, ex-FBI professor who taught classes in forensic psychology and profiling besides being the object of study in certain parts of the psychiatric community to the point where he had a few papers talking about the peculiar ways on which his mind worked, suddenly presented Hannibal the promise of the ideal mix between a pleasant surprise and a fortuitous wrong assumption.

But more important than any of that... it seemed he inadvertently found his white whale already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I struggled so much with this chapter more than the first one with Hannibal. I'm not happy how it turned out but I hope at least answers part of the question of "Does Hannibal know Will is the author?"
> 
> On a side note youtube recommended **[THIS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2iKBkZ_q7Ok)** to me the other day and I must say I love this fandom. This is now how I'm gonna imagine Will writing his Ripper fanfiction.


End file.
